Personification

I wrote this a few days ago, inspired by what I do to cope with my mental illness (bipolar) and after some editing I was able to both fully understand what was going on inside my mind, as well as write a nice poem, enjoy.
find more of my work on: http://cinthiaplath.blogspot.com/

Away goes my Human Compassion--

Off into the distance

She rides into the burning sunset.

Waving, she bids me well wishes, and farewell.

Leaving, me with only this memory to

Remember her by.

And help me, try to feel something--

Anything, for those around me.

The emotions come and go

Through the droughts I cling to false teeth

And in the monsoons, I grab hold--

And try to not be swept away with it

I remember her, when I can bear it.

The way her hair flew in every direction

In the wind, as she rode away

Farther and farther, away from me.

I stay rooted in logic.

When times got rough I used to shut her--

My lovely human compassion-- out.

And I lived purely on Wit, thinking she would always be there.

But one day I found--

She had, had enough.

And now--

I live to mock her, day after day.

But sometimes, I wonder--

Will she ever return?

And if she did--

Would there even be a place for her to sit?

Amongst my hoardings of books.

And things, piled upon things blocking all out.

What would she think of me as?

A mad scientist?

Who's experiments within herself,

Leave her scarred, and crudely put together?

And bound in leather?

Stitched painstakingly together by hand--

Is this-- how I come to now exist?

Who would love that.

Do I even know such a thing as love?

Without you?

Or has it on its own, packed itself

Neatly amongst your belongings.

And away it rides.

On the endless road,

Looking for a new place--

A warm place, full of laughter, to lay its head.

But all I really wish to remember you by,

Is your softness--

And the gentleness in you tone

That if but, only spoke to me again--

Would open the flood gates

And frantically I would rip ever book

Apart and burn it.

Leaving me,crude, malnourished and coated in ash.

Ready to fall to your feet

And beg you, to come home.

Subscribe

Get Teen Ink’s 48-page monthly print edition. Written by teens since 1989.